


troubled waters

by princesskay



Series: fragile (handle with force) [10]
Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Up, Panic Attacks, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21782158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: The bruises have likely faded by now, leaving behind little evidence of what transpired that night. Holden has been keenly focused on the case, even more so since the failures at the memorial march and benefit concert. For Bill, it’s easy enough to shove it to the back of his mind when they’re in the thick of the investigation, surrounded by police officers who are just as committed to catching the killer as they are; it’s the moments when they’re alone like this that he feels the gnawing truth revolting just beneath the surface, demanding his attention.Bill and Holden reconcile over the long weeks of bridge surveillance.
Relationships: Holden Ford/Bill Tench
Series: fragile (handle with force) [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552183
Comments: 10
Kudos: 79





	troubled waters

**Author's Note:**

> _“You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.” - Richard Siken_

Under the cover of darkness, the placid, steady surge of the Chattahoochee could be somewhere else entirely. When the sun goes down, the oppressive humidity tapers off, and the air turns sweet with the dense smell of summer and river water. The chirp of crickets and belch of frogs could almost be soothing, a pale white noise against solitude begging eyes to slip shut. 

A glance up ahead at the bridge illuminated by two, yellow streetlamps is enough to remind Bill that this place is Atlanta, a city plagued by child murders, and there’s nothing peaceful about it. 

They’re on week three of nightly bridge surveillance, with nothing to show for it except for dark circles under their eyes and frayed nerves. Just a few days ago, they pulled a boy by the name of Jo-Jo Bell from the water. His small, young body had slipped into the tide without their notice, his death going down on their watch, right under their noses. 

Right now, Bill is too tired to be angry, but he keeps reminding himself of the kid’s face just to keep himself awake. 

Holden is taking a nap in the backseat, his jacket folded under his head to provide a ration of comfort while his limbs are cramped against the narrow leather cushions. He’s snoring steadily, but it’s the quietest he’s been in the last five hours. He’d made Bill promise to wake him the moment he hears or sees anything. 

Bill lights a new cigarette as his old one burns down to a stub. He inhales fresh nicotine, and blows the stream of smoke out the half-open window. Cutting a glance to the rearview mirror, he adjusts the lens so that he can see Holden’s lax, sleeping expression shoved up against his jacket. 

The investigation had segued into bridge surveillance just after their brief argument over Bill’s absences on the riverside, and neither of them had attempted to broach the subject again. They’d carried on like normal despite the discord chafing between them, despite the private yearning and kept secrets and hurt feelings. The case deserves their full attention, but the lack of communication isn’t noble in any way; it’s cowardly and flinching, a piece of duct tape slapped haphazardly over a widening fracture. 

Bill can’t help but feel guilty about the last night they spent together. Holden had tried his hardest to gain some traction on the slipping, muddy ground between, offering his body for whatever violent, repressed emotion Bill saw fit to throw at it. Never one for half-measures, Bill had responded with just as much ferocity; but it ended in silence, a long enduring quiet that only broke when Holden slipped out of his embrace and disappeared into the bathroom for the next hour to shower and clean himself up. 

Bill had seen the angry, red welts striping his backside as he walked away, and felt a pang of guilt for how much he’d enjoyed inflicting them only slightly subdued by the recollection that Holden had begged him to do it. 

When Holden emerged from the bathroom, he’d quietly gotten dressed, and muttered that they both needed rest. It was the last they had spoken privately of it, but Bill had been reminded of the night every day for the next week as he watched Holden wince with every stride and grimace when he tried to sit. 

Bill tears his gaze from the rearview mirror. The bruises have likely faded by now, leaving behind little evidence of what transpired that night. Holden has been keenly focused on the case, even more so since the failures at the memorial march and benefit concert. For Bill, it’s easy enough to shove it to the back of his mind when they’re in the thick of the investigation, surrounded by police officers who are just as committed to catching the killer as they are; it’s the moments when they’re alone like this that he feels the gnawing truth revolting just beneath the surface, demanding his attention. 

Refocusing his gaze on the bridge, Bill rubs his eyes in an attempt to quash the exhaustion burning against his eyelids. Every night is the same - silent and empty - and he’s having a hard time remaining optimistic that a lead will spring up out of the dark, vacant hours of the night. 

Shoving the car door open, Bill gets out and stretches the stiffness from his back and legs. He keeps his gaze fixed on the bridge as he trudges around the hood of the car into the grass, and unzips to take a leak. There hasn’t been a vehicle in over twenty minutes, but it only takes one missed driver to render their weeks of surveillance pointless.

Bill glances over his shoulder when he hears the sound of the car door squeaking open. 

Holden crawls to the edge of the seat, his eyes bleary and half-shut with clinging exhaustion. Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he suppress a yawn. 

“Did I miss anything?” 

“Nope.” Bill says, zipping up his pants, and turning to face him. “Nothing for the last twenty-five minutes.” 

“It’s been a quiet night.” 

“Yep. I don’t think tonight’s the night.” 

Holden braces his hands against his knees, and scrapes a hand through his hair. Somewhere at the beginning of this week, he’d given up on combing it down perfectly each night. It’s loose and messy from sleeping against his jacket, the natural waves stubbornly erupting in limp curls across the crown of his head. He isn’t wearing his tie either, and Bill thinks this is the most unkempt he’s seen him, at least in the field. 

“He’s gonna show.” Holden says, “Maybe not tonight, but he will.” 

“We’re on the right track.” Bill agrees. “He’ll fuck up somewhere.” 

Holden’s bloodshot eyes shift up from the grass to meet Bill’s, and he nods quietly.

In between the whir of crickets and the rush of the tide, Bill can hear their desperation, both of them assuring the other that they’re nearing the end, that maybe by next week they will have caught the guy and they can go home again. Bill is beginning to wonder if it’s ever going to end, or if that light he glimpses at the end of this long, dark tunnel is going to keep stretching just out of his reach. 

“You look exhausted.” Bill says, “You can lay back down if you want. I’m good.” 

“Are you sure?” Holden asks, his brow furrowing. “You don’t look so great yourself.” 

“I was in the Army, Holden. I can handle it.” Bill says, taking a drag of his cigarette. 

“How many years ago was that?” Holden says, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. 

“Not that many.” 

“I’m okay.” Holden says, rising from the edge of the seat to stretch his arms over his head. “I want to be awake when we catch him.” 

Bill's gaze lingers as Holden’s stretching untucks the front of his shirt, and a sliver of pale skin peeks out at him. Long, sleepless hours of an investigation have a way of stemming a person’s libido, but Holden’s skin is an undeniable appeal that never fails to fire the languishing blood in Bill’s veins. 

It’s 2am and they have a bridge to watch, a killer to catch; but it’s been weeks since that night in his hotel room, and maybe that wound is healed just enough for Bill to think about him that way again, to want him with that deep, yearning hunger that’s been stifled by the stress of home and the case for the past month. 

Bill glances away, biting the inside of his cheek.  _ Maybe that’s just the exhaustion talking _ . 

“So, um…” Holden says, reorienting Bill’s attention back to the present. “How have you been holding up?” 

Bill flicks ashes into the grass. “With?” 

“You know … Brian.” Holden says, “I just realized that we haven’t really talked about it aside from … you know, when you told me.” 

Bill purses his lips as the memory of that day easily resurrects itself in his mind, complete with the sound of the river rushing just behind him. 

He clears his throat, and shrugs, “I’m holding up. Feels like I’m trying to be three places at once, but I’ll be fine. I just thought this would be over by now.” 

“Me too.” 

Bill shuffles across the grass to Holden’s side, and leans against the car. Holden shifts closer, until their shoulders are touching. 

In the distance, the bridge is a vacant, lonely strip of asphalt, and the tide of the river is the only sound apart from insects. If Bill closes his eyes, it’s like they’re the only people left alive under the endless, black dome of the sky, and consequences and reality are far away and small. It’s a feeling he’d rather hold onto because when the sun rises, it’ll be just another day, another wasted night staring at bridges and passing vehicles, waiting to get lucky while another body drops. 

“Nancy wants to move.” He says, the remark purging from his chest before he can take it back.

“Is it that bad?” 

“Mm.” Bill mutters, “It’s a tight-knit community. A lot of our neighbors knew the family of the boy.” 

“Maybe it’s not such a bad idea then.” 

“I don’t know. I just can’t pile one more thing on my plate.” Bill says, “At least not until this case is over. But, she's convinced that moving is going to solve all our problems.” 

“I'm sure you’re doing the best you can.”

“Well, it’s never enough, is it?” Bill scoffs. 

Holden watches him discreetly as he sucks on his cigarette, and tilts his head back to blow the smoke up towards the empty, star-pricked sky. 

“Bill, I’m sorry if I was hard on you at the beginning.” He says, quietly. “I had no idea that-”

“It’s fine, Holden. No need to apologize.” Bill says, shaking his head. “Maybe if I’d told you sooner … Christ, I don’t know.” 

Holden’s arms wrap around his middle as a warm breeze surges down the street, rattling the foliage. The sound of the crickets sharpen to a wail, but underneath they can both hear the unfinished lament:  _ maybe things would be different.  _

They’re both silent for a long minute before Holden shifts against the car, his shoulder edging carefully away from Bill’s. 

“I had bruises for a week.” He says, quietly, offhanded, almost as if Bill wasn’t meant to hear it. 

Bill focuses on the distant shimmer of the streetlamp illuminating the empty bridge, his jaw working from side to side. 

“Awhile ago, I would have done just about anything for you to mark me like that.” Holden continues, his voice steady except for a slight, almost imperceptible tremor. 

Bill sighs. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.” 

“You didn’t.” 

Bill cuts a quick glance to the side, and Holden’s expression is forcibly serene. 

“I would ask you to do it again if I didn’t know that …” Holden’s voice trails off, and he lifts his chin defiantly against the shiver seeping into his words.

Bill sighs, repressing the kneejerk flare of frustration in his chest. It’s too late to be angry, or try to mold Holden’s point of view into his own and vice versa. He’s too fucking tired to conjure a justification that he barely believes himself. 

“I don’t know what you want me to do.” He says, staring down at the grass. 

“You could start with a little honesty.” Holden says, his voice quiet yet pointedly sour. 

“There’s a reason I didn’t tell you.” Bill says, “And you’re proving my point right now.” 

“Why? Because I want to know why you’re suddenly disappearing from cases, and shutting me out? That’s unfair, and you know it.” 

Bill pushes away from the car, and shuffles a few feet into the grass just to get his arm out of reach of Holden. Part of him is deeply yearning to reverse all the damage he’s done to them since the situation with Brian started; another part, the sensible and idealistic side, is telling him to rip off the fucking bandaid and be done with it. They were over before it even started, before either of them knew it simply because it wasn’t meant to be. The past year of sexual deviation and longing was an aberration that should’ve ended the moment it began. 

“You know, Bill, I get it.” Holden says, tersely. “You have to take care of your family.” 

“That’s right, I do.” Bill says, cutting a hard glance over his shoulder. “They’re my priority.” 

“I never would have argued with that.” 

“Really?” Bill says, scowling in disbelief. “You would have just agreed to take a backseat? To not monopolize all of my fucking attention for five seconds?” 

Holden scoffs, and glances away, shaking his head. “That’s a ridiculous exaggeration.” 

“Is it?” Bill says, “You were the one beating down my door in the middle of the night, demanding we talk, forcing me into-”

“ _ Forcing  _ you?” Holden interrupts, uttering a choked, mirthless laugh. “Please, Bill. You wanted it just as much as I did.” 

Bill tosses his cigarette to the ground, and stomps on it, channeling his frustration into the heel of his boot. Holden’s defiant gaze reaches across the blank space between them, clinging onto the tremble working its way through Bill’s jaw, cutting past the layers of obstinance and denial. The thought of ending things melts into the rush of the tide, sluicing away with the troubled waters. 

“I still want it.” Holden says, his voice dropping to a choked whisper. “I still want you, even if …” 

Bill’s chest quivers as Holden’s voice fades, and he glances away towards the bridge. Bill can see the sweat lingering on his temples and gleaming over the flushed skin at his throat. His chest rises with a hitched breath, and he closes his eyes against the slight breeze that sweeps in from the water to rustle his hair. 

_ Don’t.  _ Bill thinks, curling his hands into fists at his sides.  _ Don’t fucking give in.  _

The tide swells, growing to a dull roar in the back of his mind. He’s focused on the tremble in Holden’s fingers as he leans back against the car, his body limp and open, inviting Bill’s touch no matter how gentle or violent, or that coarse gray area in between. 

Holden’s eyelids flutter open again to stare half-open at Bill. The pucker of his lower lip trembles with a slow, raspy inhale. 

Bill moves across the grass without another logical thought, having just enough sense to scan the dark, empty street for witnesses just before his body crashes into Holden’s. 

Holden gasps into Bill’s mouth as their lips collide. They fumble through a few hasty, sloppy strokes before settling into a hungry yet firm caress. Holden’s mouth tumbles open to the nudging of Bill’s tongue, and he utters a groan that rolls into Bill’s mouth, down into his belly where need is beginning to surge. 

Clutching Holden’s cheeks, Bill draws him deeper into the kiss. His mouth moves coarsely, desperately over Holden’s panting lips, tasting him with deep strokes of his tongue, sucking on his lower lip as he comes away, letting Holden gasp in a breath before smothering him again. 

Holden moans quietly, pawing at Bill’s chest. He’s still leaning eagerly into it when Bill withdraws, severing the kiss with a wet smack of lips. 

Bill gasps in a breath, and averts his gaze away from Holden’s pink, kissed-raw lips. The bridge is hazy in the distance, the two street lamps melding together into a yellow globe. 

“You want it, too.” Holden whispers, his voice strangled with need. 

Bill tugs his fingers free from Holden’s hair, and braces them against the cold steel of the car instead. 

“Fuck.” He mutters, shaking his head. “I can’t fucking do this.”

Holden leans into him, fingers clutching at his shirt, but Bill pulls away. Pacing away from the car, he pushes his knuckles across his mouth where the taste of Holden’s lips is setting in sweet and thick like buttermilk and his skin is tingling and alive with the friction. His belly itches with a barely contained longing, but over that dull roar the crushing weight of his responsibilities at home comes down to stamp out the fire. 

When Bill peeks a glance over his shoulder, Holden is leaning against the car, his hands splayed white against the black paint. His head is down, but Bill can see his chest heaving with deep breaths. 

The sound of tires over pavement interrupts the disarray of Bill’s thoughts. 

Holden’s head swivels as headlights cut a swath of light across their position along the side of the road. A dark colored car speeds past them, and proceeds across the bridge without stopping. 

Holden yanks the passenger door open, and ducks inside to grab the walkie-talkie. 

“We’ve got a dark colored sedan, four door, driving pretty quickly.” He says, his voice calm and hardly betraying what had just happened. 

The walkie-talkie hisses static for a moment before Jim’s voice crackles through. “Copy that. I’ve got him on the other side. Doesn’t look like he’s stopped.” 

Holden sighs. “Great.” 

“You guys staying awake over there?” Jim asks. 

“Yeah, we’re fine. It’s a slow night.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

“I’ll let you know in another - say half an hour - when the next car passes.” 

Jim chuckles, “You got it.” 

Holden tosses the walkie-talkie onto the console, and sinks down into the passenger’s seat with a heavy sigh. He rubs a hand over his eyes before cutting a glance back to Bill. 

Bill stands stiffly in the grass, breathing against the palpating surge of his heartbeat. With the interjection of reality, the kiss feels wildly inappropriate, and shame rises up to swallow the lingering desires. 

“Do you want to take the backseat for half an hour?” Holden asks, “I’m good to watch the bridge.” 

“No.” Bill says, trudging towards the car. “I’m more likely to throw my back out than get any sleep back there.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

Sliding back behind the wheel, Bill pulls out his cigarettes. He focuses on the scratch of the lighter as Holden peeks across the car at him. He takes a hard drag of his cigarette, smothering the urge to pull Holden across the car, over his knee. The need is alive in the deep blue of Holden’s eyes, silently, wordlessly begging him to do it. 

Bill stares at the bridge, and tells himself to breathe. It’s like a wave; he just has to ride it out until it passes. But with Holden, it never really passes. He just keeps breathing in the water until he’s drowning with it, too lost in something good he can’t explain to know when to let go and break to the surface. 

~

It’s nearing the end of week three when they extract Eddie Duncan’s lifeless body from the choppy, brown current of the Chattahoochee. Bill and Holden stand in the dirt and gravel lining the riverbed while four officers wade out to drag the body from the tide and onto a gurney. 

Holden’s stomach turns as he watches them pull the gurney out of the water and into the grass for the ME to take a look. One of them has a camera, taking pictures. 

Jim and Bill are saying something about the bridge surveillance, but he can’t focus on the conversation. His stomach is churning in a battle between nausea, panic, and rage. 

Every previous plan he’d presented failed due to lack of funding, time or dedication, but despite having the resources available to watch the bridges every night, children are still dying. When Chief Redding approved the plan, he’d thought they wouldn’t need four weeks; he’d been confident they would catch the killer in half that time. He’d been far too self-assured, far too fucking myopic. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s beginning to question the profile, the surveillance, every tactic they’ve tried, the entire investigation from start to finish. When Redding announces that the fourth week of surveillance will be their last, Holden feels the crushing weight of that insinuation burst from the dark corners of his mind to collapse on his weary shoulders. 

It’s Monday morning - or Sunday evening according to his backwards sleep schedule - when Holden drops into bed on the verge of their final week of funding. He falls into a restless sleep where he dreams of the streets of Atlanta at night. He’s running across empty asphalt, the weight of the cross bearing down on his shoulders, and up ahead, he can see a boy’s face in the shadows, screaming for help. He runs and runs, but the boy is dragged away by an unseen force, an evil face in the dark that carries him towards an untimely death. Hoisting the weight of the cross, Holden combs through what feels like miles upon miles of side streets and dark alleyways, but the killer is always ten steps ahead, the helpless boy in tow. 

Holden jerks awake to the sunlight pouring past the curtains. He kicks back the sheets when he realizes he’s sweating profusely through his shirt. Swinging trembling limbs over the edge of the mattress, he peels the damp shirt off over his head, and staggers to his feet. 

His heart is pounding and the sound of his breath scraping meagerly into his lungs grates across his raw nerves. Everything is excruciatingly sharp, every light and noise screaming against his fragile senses. 

Dragging himself to the bathroom, Holden finds the prescription bottle lined up next to the bar of soap and his toothpaste. Cramming the pills in his mouth, he bends to cradle his hands under the tap, and gulps down water until he feels the the Valium slide down the back of his constricting throat. He cranks the water off, and sinks to the floor of the bathroom on his knees. His wet hands cling limply to the edge of the sink as he braces his forehead against the cabinet, breathing through the receding waves of panic. 

Holden counts to ten over and over, until the shrill ring of horror fades and the panicked squeeze of his lungs eases to allow full, deep breaths of soothing oxygen. The attack seems close to ending when the sound of someone knocking on the door echoes from the hotel room into the bathroom. 

Scrambling to his feet, Holden casts a hasty glance in the mirror before rushing out of the bathroom. His cheeks are flushed pink and his hair is matted with sweat, the glimmer of panic inconcealable. 

“Just a minute!” He calls as the knocking comes again.

Running to the closet, he yanks the door open to search for a clean shirt. 

“Holden?” Bill’s voice reaching from the other side of the door makes Holden freeze. “Are you okay in there?” 

Holden hesitates a moment before abandoning the shirt search to pull the door open. 

“Bill, you’re back.” He says, leaning heavily against the doorframe. 

Bill frowns worriedly at him from the hall. “Yeah, I just came from the airport.” 

“Oh.” Holden says, glancing away as Bill’s gaze steadily takes in his flushed, sweaty appearance. 

“I was going to see if you wanted breakfast.” Bill says, “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I just … I had this crazy dream, and-”

Bill’s frown deepens, and he shifts closer to the half-shut door. “Did you have a panic attack?” 

Holden bites into his lower lip. The question forces a knot to the back of his throat, more out of shame than anything else. He’d claimed at every turn that he could handle this case. He’d wanted to prove to Ted and Wendy, but most of all Bill that his profile is right, that he can catch the killer, that he can do it on his own. 

“Holden?” Bill presses. 

Holden steps aside without argument as Bill pushes the door open wider to allow him to slip inside. He eases the door shut behind him, and turns to pin Holden with a concerned gaze. 

“Are you okay?” He repeats, softer this time. 

“I’m fine.” Holden says, sharply, cutting a glare upward. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay.” Bill says, holding up a hand. “We’ve just got a long night ahead of us. I’m concerned-”

“You’re concerned.” Holden echoes, scoffing quietly. 

“Yes.” Bill says, tersely. “I think I’m more than justified in-”

“Well, I’m glad you’re worried about me, Bill.” Holden says, “If nothing else, you’re  _ concerned _ .” 

Bill’s frustrated stare follows Holden as he turns back to the closet to sift through his shirts. He can feel it burning into the back of his head and his bare shoulders, touching places it hasn’t touched since that night with the belt. The hickeys are gone from his shoulders, but Holden wishes they were still speckled vermillion, a blatant testament of their desires Bill could see written on his skin. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, tautly. “I give a shit about you outside of the bedroom, Holden. Is that such a bad thing?” 

“I don’t want your sympathy, Bill.” Holden says, yanking a shirt free from the hanger. “I’m not fragile, and I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” 

He shoots a glance over his shoulder, and Bill is much closer than a moment ago. There’s a scarce foot of space between them, close enough that Bill could touch him if he simply lifted his hand from his side. His gaze is stuck on Holden’s back, wandering the dip and curve of his bare spine down to where the skin is dimpled right above the waistband of his pajama pants. 

Holden draws in a shaky breath. Powdery Valium has dissolved into his veins, slowing his heart rate to sluggish thrum, turning everything hazy and soft. Suddenly, the shirt in his hands feels far away while the wisp of Bill’s breath is close and tangible, all he can focus on. 

He closes his eyes, trying to breathe and maintain a logical string of thought. 

“It’s like I said - you’re either in or you’re out.” He whispers, bolstering the tremble in his voice. 

“And you said you didn’t want commitments.” Bill says, shifting closer. He isn’t touching Holden yet, but his mouth is inches from his nape, his breath spilling hotly between Holden’s shoulder blades. 

Holden shudders, bracing a hand against the frame of the closet. Perhaps, he’d been too myopic in that regard as well. 

“I don’t.” He whispers, “ Not the kinds you’re thinking of. I don’t want a house, or kids, or a mortgage. I don’t want rings or vows, or anything like that. I just want you, the way you make me feel when you’re punishing me.” 

Bill’s palm grasps his bare hip, and Holden bites back a gasp. He lets go of the shirt, and it falls to the ground at his feet as Bill pushes against him. His forehead presses to Holden’s nape, his mouth breathing needy breaths down his spine. 

“You want that now?” Bill whispers, his voice low and choked. “Right after an episode?” 

“Yes.” Holden says, trying not to moan. “Now more than ever, Bill; I need it, I need-”

Before he can finish, Bill pushes him up against the wall. Holden braces both hands against the wall as Bill’s fingers delve underneath his pajama pants and briefs, peeling both layers of fabric away in the same motion. Holden’s mouth spills open in a strangled cry of joy when his cock springs free, already halfway hard at the simple thought of Bill touching him in any way - but most especially at the thought of his hand coming down hard, breaking down the knotted anxiety and drowning his fears in a tingling haze of pain and pleasure. 

“Yes, yes.” Holden gasps, stumbling out of his crumpled pants. 

Grasping Holden’s hips, Bill guides his feet back from the wall so that he’s partially bent forward, his hips arched back towards the promise of punishment. Holden presses his forehead into the wall as Bill’s mouth grazes his shoulder, and his hand slides down the shivering curve of Holden’s spine to stroke his ass cheek. 

Holden bites back a whine as Bill fondles him gently, warming the skin to his touch. 

“Please.” He whispers, choking on the desperate thought pounding across the back of his mind.  _ Hurry, hurry, hurry.  _ But he’s already lost control, and Bill is firmly holding the reins now, directing the speed, the pain, the pleasure, all of it in equal measure. 

Bill's palm slides down the curve of Holden’s ass to press against his inner thigh, nudging his legs open wider. Holden shifts his feet open across the carpet, feeling his cock twitch as he settles into position, entirely vulnerable to whatever Bill chooses to do with him. 

The guiding touch retreats from Holden’s thigh, and he swallows back the desperation crowding at the back of his throat. Silence elapses, buzzing and taut with need; Holden can feel every second crawling across his prickling, longing skin, building towards the power concealed in the palm of Bill’s hand. 

He keeps himself from looking over his shoulder as Bill’s body presses against his side, leaving his backside bare and vulnerable. Staring down at the carpet, he watches Bill’s weight shifts from one foot to the other. 

Holden tries to anticipate it, but the first swing of Bill’s hand jolts a sharp cry from the back of his throat. His skin sparks with sudden, biting aliveness, breaking past the daze of Valium into breathtaking, stinging reality. 

He’s still blinking and gasping when the second one comes, Bill’s hand cracking hard across his skin with little prelude. He’s cast aside concern and gentility, and Holden revels in the brutal crush of his palm, treating him like something to be broken rather than coddled. 

Holden braces his feet into the carpet, and presses his eyes shut as the third spanking ignites a wave of needles across his skin. The sensation echoes through his body, an enduring halflife that he clings hungrily to in the lapse of scarce seconds between blows. 

The crack of Bill’s hand colliding with his backside cuts through the midday silence of the hotel, followed by Holden’s groan of pain and whimper of pleasure melding into one strangled, high-pitched sound. 

Holden’s eyes drift open to see his cock swinging in helpless throes of need between his legs. He’s throbbing so hard that he can barely feel the pulse of pain beginning to hum across his skin. He pleads a desperate sound, rocking his hips back towards the repetitive swing of Bill’s hand. 

The thrusting meets Bill’s palm at the latter end of the motion, crashing a wave of burning tingles across Holden’s skin down past the superficial layers to the point where it begins to linger and prod. 

“Oh, fuck.” Holden whines, pressing his forehead harder into the wall. He can feel his palms beginning to slide across the paint as exhilarated sweat gathers, his whole body oozing with need. 

Bill braces his other hand in the middle of Holden’s back, guiding the recoiled curve back into his spine. 

Holden bites back a whimper as his backside lapses back into arched position, bare and begging for the next rash of spankings. 

Bill measures out the next one, absorbing Holden’s pained cry for barely a second before letting his hand fall again and again. Moans tumble from Holden’s open, panting mouth as he loses track of the crack of skin-on-skin, the spankings piling on top of each other in a stinging, repetitive rhythm. 

Holden’s knees tremble as the pain and need intensifies, every inch of him burning in agony. His backside hurts, his cock pounds desperately, and his straining legs threaten to buckle to moment Bill’s lets him go; but he clings to the wall, gasping his satisfaction with every crack of Bill’s hand, leaning into the pleasure of Bill touching him in this way after so long. 

When the spankings abruptly cease, Holden staggers against the wall, panting heavily. Humming pain lingers across his backside, simmering like embers of a dying fire. His cock throbs, pushed to the verge of need into swollen, aching territory that competes with the pain of punishment. 

Bill’s arms wind around his chest, easing him gently away from the wall and into the solid cushion of his chest. His mouth presses against Holden’s neck, stamping hot kisses down against the curve of his shoulder. 

“You’re okay.” He murmurs, his arms tightening around him. "Everything is going to be okay. I've got you." 

Holden nods, closing his eyes against the sudden press of tears. He can feel the anxious knot in his chest dissolving, the panic subsiding from his veins. His muscles melt into lax passivity, waiting for Bill to guide him, to tell him what to do next, how he should get his orgasm, how he should go about earning it. 

Slowly, Bill turns Holden around in his arms, his touch gentle in the wake of brutality. As Holden comes to face him, he glances gingerly upward to see Bill's eyes heavy and tender with an immense longing that makes Holden's chest constrict. He opens his mouth to speak, but only a muted whimper emerges. Bill's mouth captures his, and Holden realizes they're both trembling, their breaths rasping delicately back and forth against one another between kisses. 

Bill crowds Holden into the wall, clutching his cheek to turn his mouth up to the kiss. Opening his mouth, Holden succumbs, and Bill's tongue pushes past the rim of his quivering lip. Holden moans, clutching at Bill's chest to stabilize his quaking limbs. 

Bracing a hand against the wall, Bill withdraws just far enough for their noses to brush. His breath is hot against Holden's cheeks while their gazes hold, needs responding back and forth in the Morse code of exhilarated, batting eyelids. 

Holden swallows hard, and opens his mouth to speak, to beg. Thoughts are crowding against the back of his tongue - thoughts of deep, aching longing that he's been repressing or ignoring for weeks, thoughts shaded red with pain and humiliation and unspent release, thoughts of escape that Bill has always offered him inside the haze borderlining pain and pleasure. He wants to say that he's been slowly withering away without it, and the spanking Bill just gave him was some kind of sustenance but it's not enough - never enough. 

Holden tries to think how to say it for a long moment, but eventually Bill seems to understand. He kisses Holden before the need can emerge fully articulated, instead accepting the responding whimper rolling across Holden's tongue as some kind of private, esoteric vernacular. 

Bill clutches his hips as they both sink to the carpet. He guides the gradual fall until he's sitting back on his heels and Holden is straddling his lap, both arms around Bill's neck to enforce the hunger in his kiss. Bill's mouth pushes back against Holden's eager strokes, tongue gliding along his lower lip and against his tongue, tasting and glazing over raw friction. 

Holden gasps when their mouths break apart. Bill's forehead presses against his own, but his gaze is fixed on Holden's cock leaping between his thighs. 

Spitting into his palm, he takes Holden in his hand, and smooths the saliva down the shaft. 

"Oh, Bill." Holden moans.

His hips buck into the light pressure as a thrill of tingles chase after every stroke. The need that had been building steadily since Bill first touched him erupts with biting force, drawing his groin abruptly tight. Orgasm hovers at the edges of his mind, but he shoves it down just long enough to reach for the fasten of Bill's trousers.

Holden presses a sloppy kiss to Bill's neck as he pops the button and zipper open to find him throbbing underneath. 

Bill utters a quiet groan, but maintains the persistent stroke of his hand jerking Holden's cock. His hips lift long enough to allow the trousers to come down. Holden tugs the boxers back from the swollen jut of his erection, and claims the pulsing flesh in his fist. 

"Fuck." Bill mutters, his breath surging hotly against Holden's neck. "That's good, baby." 

Holden wiggles closer, choking out a sound of pleasure and need. The faint praise is all he needs to feel himself tipping towards the verge of orgasm, his arousal being squeezed like a hair trigger beneath Bill's coaxing. 

Bill's mouth pets a slick path up Holden's neck and against his ear where it pauses to expel a husky breath. His hand caresses Holden's cock faster, wringing a string of whimpers from him.

"That's good." He whispers, "Feels good, doesn't it?" 

"Yes." Holden moans. 

"Show me." Bill says, leaning back to glimpse Holden's parted lips and blushing cheeks. "Moan for me." 

Holden gasps as the undercurrent of need intensifies, nearly dragging him under with the raspy cadence of Bill's voice wringing pre-cum from his pulsing cock. He doesn't have to expend much effort in fulfilling Bill's request; the choked moans bubble up effusively, pouring with ease from his stretched open lips. 

He can feel Bill's cock swelling in his grasp, urged on by the the affirming whimper in his voice. His own pleasure hovers just beyond his reach, swimming in a humming daze of pulsing arousal and lingering pain. He presses closer, and squeezes his eyes shut to focus on the tingle of orgasm cresting in his belly.

"That's it." Bill mutters against his ear. "Good boy. So fucking beautiful." 

Holden shudders, a surge of tingles sweeping down his spine and into his belly. Bill's fist rubs harder, and he feels himself falling into it, sinking past clenched, anticipatory muscles and faint tingles into full-body spasms.

"Oh god… " Holden gasps, his body seizing against Bill's.

Release erupts from his cock as the shudders roll through him, twisting and wringing his insides until he's helpless and moaning with it. Bill's hand strokes him through every second of it, fierce and persistent through the initial convulsions but easing into a slow caress as Holden begins to soften in his grasp.

As the spasms fade, Holden drops his forehead against Bill's shoulder. He's breathing hard, head spinning. He can barely focus on the sloppy stroke if his hand over Bill's cock until Bill's hand, wet with cum, curls over his knuckles. Their fingers interlock as Bill guides his hand into a faster stroke, massaging his own cock toward release. 

Holden slips his eyes open to watch their entwined hands glide up and down the shaft, smearing Holden's cum across the blunt, swollen flesh. He's wet from root to tip long before his own spasms begin, allowing for the fast, determined pace Bill sets. 

As Bill begins to stiffen and shudder, Holden presses his mouth to his sweat-lined neck, absorbing his shivers and groans. Bill hunches over against him, breathing out choked sounds of pleasure while his cock spurts cum on his shirt and Holden's chest. 

He leans into Holden as he begins to slip down the other side from the peak of it. Nuzzling his mouth into Holden's neck, he extricates his fingers from Holden's to wrap both arms around his waist. 

They hold onto each other in the impending silence, the spaces between action and consequence spreading out into a momentary bubble around them. For the first time since arriving in Atlanta, Holden feels safe, this cruel darkness terminal, this feeling between them infinite. Maybe by tonight when they're in the car, staring at empty bridges, that feeling will be gone just like the fading red handprints on his skin, but for now it's an immutable certainty he can hold onto despite everything else.

~

When Bill knocked on Holden's door that morning, he'd had no intention of diving past his misgivings and touching him, let alone giving him the punishment he begged for or making him come all over Bill's hand and himself. He'd spent the weekend at home, trying to remind himself what he's fighting for, what's really important. But Nancy had been cold to him, and barely a conversation had passed between them in two day's time. All she wants to talk about is moving or him taking time off, a request Ted would never approve while they're in the trenches of the Atlanta investigation. 

He'd had no intention of giving in, but Holden had looked at him like that - big, blue eyes wet with unshed tears, his chin quivering stubbornly against emotion, his voice choked with frustration and longing. His skin was soft and bare under the kind, pale light of midday sunshine spilling into the hotel room, and the constellation of freckles across his back seemed to write out  _ take me.  _ Holden moaned and shuddered in deep, genuine pleasure through every spanking and caress, and Bill couldn't stop himself from thinking:  _ this is one thing I can do right.  _ The idea of shutting himself away from the joy and satisfaction of touching Holden glared criminally back at him from across the distance of a long burnt bridge. 

After what feels like an hour in Holden’s embrace, Bill can feel his legs going numb underneath of him. Holden's weight is slowly leaning heavier and heavier into him, his limbs limp and dependent on the support of Bill's chest. Though he would rather stay in this cuddled position than go face bridge surveillance, Bill nudges Holden's side. 

"We should get cleaned up." 

Holden mumbles a soft complaint, but lifts his head from Bill's shoulder. 

Bill smooths a lingering tear from the corner of Holden's eye. "Hey, you heard me, didn't you? It's gonna be okay." 

Holden sighs. "When, Bill?" 

"Soon. We’re gonna go out there and catch the son of a bitch, maybe tonight." 

Holden leans back against the wall, his hands trailing down Bill's chest. “I just don’t know if I’ve done enough. I don't think any of us have." 

"We're doing all we can." 

The words sound empty in the face of twenty-five dead kids, but Bill doesn't have any more answers. He just needs Holden to believe him. 

Clutching Holden's hips, Bill shifts out from underneath him, and stretches his legs out across the carpet. Both are dead asleep, and he grits his teeth as the blood begins to prickle back into the veins. 

"What are we going to do?" Holden asks, softly. 

"We're going to stick with the surveillance as long as we can, and pray to God the motherfucker shows by the end of the week." 

"I meant us." 

Bill suppresses a sigh, and avoids Holden's tentative gaze. "Jesus, I don't know. I don't have all the answers, Holden." 

Holden nods, focusing on his hands twisting anxiously in his lap. "I know you don't, I just …" 

"What?" 

"It feels good when you … when I know you really want me. I feel certain about everything." 

Bill purses his mouth against the twitch of a faint smile. "Good. I need you to be certain. We all do. This investigation needs you to be certain." 

“I used to feel that way all the time. Not just about cases.” 

“Me too.” 

“Those days are gone.” Holden mutters, rubbing both hands over his face. “I feel like I’m questioning everything, Bill. Everyone involved in this case, everything we’ve done so far … my profile.” 

Bill frowns as the admission slips past Holden’s lips. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment because the realization is still processing, still sinking in. He’s seen Holden question things before, but not his profile. The dog with the bone has finally unlatched his jaw. 

Holden sighs. “Jim and I were speaking a few nights ago, and he said if somebody - white or black - drops a body off that bridge, it won’t matter what their race is.” 

“He’s right.” 

“But, it would matter to me.” Holden says, “I mean, what is the point of our research if it can’t be applied to real life scenarios?” 

“It’s just that - research.” Bill says, “We have to learn before we can teach. And there’s still a hell of a lot that we have to learn. This isn’t a failure, no matter if the killer turns out to be white or black.” 

“You’re probably right …” 

“I know I am.” 

Holden mutters a quiet laugh, and casts Bill a fond gaze. The glossy tears have melted from his eyes, leaving behind a faint, irritated red that might be fixable with breakfast and a cup of coffee. 

“Come on.” Bill says, grunting as he crawls to his feet. “We’ve got work to do.” 

Holden follows him to the bathroom, and they quietly share the sink to clean up. When they get downstairs, Jim is already waiting for them in the hotel bar. They grab a quick bite to eat before heading to the precinct for the daily report on the proceedings of the investigation. 

Despite Bill’s bravado, that evening is silent and void. They converse briefly through the long hours of darkness, barely mentioning what had happened only hours earlier in Holden’s room, but most of the tension has dissolved. Bill feels at ease again sitting next to Holden, listening to the soft lilt of his voice whispering out theories against the hum of cicadas.

Somewhere around three a.m., Bill drifts off to sleep with his head tilted back against the headrest. He hardly realizes that he’s faded away until the nudge of Holden’s fingers around his own grounds him back into reality. He keeps his eyes shut as Holden’s hand tucks itself against his palm, fingers lacing lacing through Bill’s to squeeze gently. Bill doesn’t squeeze back, afraid Holden will retract the touch the moment he realizes Bill is lucid. 

The embrace lasts half an hour before a car driving past causes Holden to yank his fingers free and reach for the walkie-talkie. Bill makes a show of jolting awake. 

They don’t catch the Atlanta child murderer that night, but when they stagger bleary-eyed and exhausted back to the hotel, Holden stops Bill in the hallway. The corridor is silent and half-lit, providing a sense of privacy to his whispered suggestion. 

“Stay with me tonight?” 

Bill follows Holden back down the hallway to his room where they both strip down to their underwear and fall into bed. Bill curls close to Holden’s back as Holden pulls the sheets overtop of them and settles down against the pillow with a contented hum. Bill is too exhausted to think about sex even with Holden’s lush backside pressed up against his groin; he falls asleep with his face buried in Holden’s neck, breathing in the smell of him until it masks the lingering scent of riverwater, summer air, and a dozen spent cigarettes. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm [prinxcesskayy](https://prinxcesskayy.tumblr.com//) on Tumblr!


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